i would be brilliant at being victorian, even as i would
but at least then the war cries of women
(western, privileged women)
would make sense. as it is, i am the artist looking stupidly (they say)
to the wrong political direction and for me
comes before a maligned humanist choice. new american freedom is at the expense
of dead tiny-feet in a cupped plastic hand.
let’s push at the extremes of gender and family and leave
western civilization for the dogs (it’s offensive, anyway, and too exclusive). do
i deserve this tradition if you all speak for art
and then mock mine because i marked ‘capitalism’ on the millennial brain-box.
how can i be a woman only by killing what is inside me, the child and the
feminity both, men now too dark to be anything but woman and all women
proudly, strongly, freely men. your inclusive rainbow-painted smiles
leave me out; i am on the sidelines, in skirts, virgin until marriage and
fierce unto my self, unpopular still, thank you.